


One Mirror; Standard Issue, Used

by kyburg



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: But she asked for it so it's okay, Chocolate, Christmas Parties, Four-in-hands, M/M, Mirrors, Smutty, Teddy Bears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyburg/pseuds/kyburg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preparing for the company Christmas Party in 1972, the year Alexander Waverly passed away, Napoleon Solo finds himself haunted by his appearance in the many, many mirrors he encounters in his daily life.</p><p>It's up to his own personal mirror to provide just the right kind of perspective on the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Mirror; Standard Issue, Used

**Author's Note:**

  * For [svetlanacat4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/svetlanacat4/gifts).



> My prompts were "Mirrors, teddy bears and chocolate."
> 
> I love a good challenge - hope you enjoy the result! And the happiest of Yuletides to you, merriest of Christmases and a splendid New Year to you!

What was it with mirrors, Napoleon Solo mused as he discovered himself passing yet another one, self-aware in a way he found almost painful. In all honesty, please don’t spare me, he thought – what was it with the mirrors? He found he wasn’t able to escape them as of late and more and more, he found the experience of seeing himself in them harder and harder to accept. 

One would almost think they were out to find him, just to stand there and wait for him to come by. Then he would look and peer – and adjust. Push a stray hair away, brush the edge where the razor may not have clipped the sideburns quite right at his jaw. How many more silver strands were there, that hadn’t been there the last time. Silver in the eyebrows, really now? How was that fair?

Is that really me?

He knew his beard contained more silver than he would ever be comfortable showing anymore, so the idea that he would ever be anything but clean-shaven carried a frisson of shame as well as satisfaction at being well-groomed.

Aunt Amy had always drilled that into him. The sister of an admiral, of an ambassador, she’d known how to be prepared, to be dressed, well-heeled and turned out. _Napoleon, darling. Even if you aren’t handsome, good grooming will fool most of them, trust me. You will know you are, and if you believe it – they all will._

Oh Amy. I’m getting old. I don’t believe I can be old very well. It doesn’t look good on me.

“So vain, Napoleon. Honestly.” The tone was annoyed in a way that only Illya Kuryakin could manage while keeping his eyes dancing with mirth as he came up behind him. “Such a trial and a burden, reaching your late fifties in one piece, you great fool – did nobody tell you about that pesky thing called change, Napoleon? Hm?”

“Good evening, Illya. You always seem to have my best interests at heart, as always.”

The smaller man only cocked his head at his reflection next to Napoleon’s, a lift of his square jaw while his mouth twisted in an lopsided smile, mocking his friend’s discomfiture. “What was that awful stuff they keep selling on television, Geritol? You’re of an age now to take advantage - perhaps some of that would set you right again. Oaf.”

Closing his eyes, Napoleon found he couldn’t answer, and after a moment felt Illya lay a hand on his arm, feather-light and hesitant as most touches from him were. “Napasha…you’re not serious, you can’t be. What’s going through that funny head of yours, hmm?”

“My just rewards, perhaps?” It took too long to find the words, he knew and his voice was barely steady enough to speak them. “It would appear I’ve lived long enough to reap what I’ve sown.” Opening his eyes, Napoleon turned to face Illya, holding him at arm’s length by the shoulders. “I am old, my friend. Something I never thought I’d live to see.”

Illya only looked back at him with a tolerant, fond look in his deep blue eyes, shaking his head. “You are _older_ , it’s true – but old, Napoleon? You? And if you were, what would it matter?”

Looking at his oldest friend, the one who had been at his elbow through some of the most difficult times of his life, risked as much or more than he had in the service of agency and country, Napoleon found himself feeling shame as he saw the light tracery of lines in Illya’s face, strands of silver among the gold on his head, still as thick and straight as ever. “I notice the lack of complaint on your part, and I thank you for that. But – “

“But nothing, you’re being maudlin. Napoleon – “

Illya closed his eyes with a toss of his head in pique, mouth opening to voice another protest when Napoleon silenced Illya with the touch of gentle fingers to his lips, waiting for him to meet his eyes before he leaned in to kiss him, his hand gently cupping the back of his head, bringing him nearer, tilting his face up to meet his.

He didn’t object when he felt Illya’s arms encircle him, drawing him in as he returned the kiss with the steady, bottomless passion that marked Illya Kuryakin as thoroughly as his marksmanship or his unassuming charm. He tasted of coffee and cream in equal parts, sweet and familiar.

“Would it ever matter to you, Illyusha? Do you even see me when you look my way anymore?’ 

Napoleon loved hearing how Illya’s voice roughened with emotion as it did now as he answered. “I only see you. You know that. And I would know you in any guise, today or tomorrow. Forever. You know this.”

Using his hands to first stroke his lower back, then anchor at Napoleon’s hips , Illya stood on the balls of feet to meet Napoleon halfway in a deep kiss, sharing his very breath with him. “Would anyone love me as much as you have, old friend?” The words tumbled easily out of Napoleon’s mouth, flattery of long practice an easy thing with him. Napoleon knew he was lucky; it was a thing he had depended on most of his life, claimed his success and survival by its very presence.

“You make it difficult for anyone else to try, you old fox.” The expression in the blond man’s eyes was equal parts adoration and impatience as he tipped his head back, the tip of his tongue tracing his lips as if he’d gotten a taste of something decadent and wanted more.

“Or you just steal any of the interested parties away with that moody Russian charm of yours. “

“Point,” he murmured. “It is something of a matter of honor with me. You foul, unfaithful scoundrel of a man.”

Drawing Illya to his chest, Napoleon rested his chin lightly on the top of his head, looking beyond him, back now to the mirror on the wall. Illya’s blond hair was still as soft and silky as ever, the body warm, lithe and strong beneath his hands. Sighing deeply, he allowed his eyes to close as he felt Illya trace patterns on his back with determined, nimble fingers. “Illya…Illyusha. How did we get here? It was only a few days ago I met you.”

“And only a few more before I knew I would always be happiest at your side. And hated you for it, of course. At first.”

“At first.”

“A lot. Quite a bit, actually.”

The way his voice deepened and rumbled in his chest comforted Napoleon in a way he found hard to describe. Only for Illya, that was the part of him only Illya got. “That too,” he replied.

Gently swayed by Illya as he pushed at Napoleon’s shoulder with his nose, his voice grew puckish as it deepened in mirth. “It was a few decades ago, Pasha.”

“Hush. You’re spoiling my good mood.”

A gentle but firm pat on the back and Illya disengaged himself, stepping back from Napoleon to fold hands in front on him, cocking his head up at him. “If it had been a child, it would be old enough to graduate from college three times over, Napoleon. Is there something wrong with that, all of a sudden?”

Leaning back to rest his own chin in hand, propped by the elbow by his other hand, Napoleon considered the look on his longtime companion’s face. “Wrong, if you put it that way? Hardly. But do you recall what Waverly said about growing older in the spy business?”

“He was over a hundred years old when he died, Napoleon. He never retired – I always wondered about that bit. I always wondered why – when I wasn’t grateful he was still there, of course. “

“Of course.” Gesturing with his free hand, Napoleon looked away as he remembered his mentor and yes, his old friend now gone from them to a richly deserved reward. “He was always quick to tell me – when I’d made a complete blunder of things and found myself in the hospital with him bedside – that there were bold spies…there were old spies…but rarely, were they both. And how I should decide which I was going to be, because I was doing poorly at being either.”

The other man only nodded sagely. “He said as much to me, when he wasn’t calling me a right fool for botching a mission, however it’d happened. I always wondered if it wasn’t just his way of saying how happy he was to see me. You understand.”

“Of course. Who else would?” Napoleon’s gaze was drawn to the large picture window that framed his view of Central Park, crisp blue December skies over snowy fields intersecting plowed streets, the sounds of the world below them now audible in the silence. “I do miss him,” he said sadly.

“As do I. Tonight, perhaps more than others? This is the first Christmas without him, after all.”

Adjusting a cuff, Napoleon remembered his date with the hall mirror had begun when he had stepped before it to do up his four-in-hand, the black satin cold and slippery in his hands. “I find myself unable to properly anticipate the yearly party, Illya. Somehow, this is not surprising, but it is – “

“Saddening.”

“Yes.” 

Feeling Illya pick up the ends of the tie from around his shoulders where it had gone unnoticed, Napoleon kept looking over the top of his head to scan the rest of the living room to note the furnishings with the eyes of memory; noting this piece of art had come from a grateful client, that painting from an estate he’d been the last beneficiary of, those books – those books had come from Alexander Waverly, once upon a time. _“I’m purging my personal library, Mr. Solo- a very beneficial exercise, making room for more I’ve not made myself familiar with. Refreshing, to say the least – but I’d like to keep these close to hand, if you don’t mind. I may miss them and wish to visit them sometime. Old friends and all that, don’t you know?”_

I may miss you and wish to visit you from time to time, Sir. Grief was something Napoleon had only had a passing, academic interest in – loss in his line of work was an occupational hazard, routine and commonplace. Expected, in fact.

But now, it was happening to him and it was an unpleasant, sobering experience. Looking in mirrors only confirmed that indeed, time had passed and what had been was truly lost indeed. 

I am separated from what I had held most dear. The constants in my life now taken from me, never mine to keep in the first place.

“Bother.” Illya untied the four-in-hand, stripping it off his neck with a whistle of abused silk, huffing his displeasure into the silence. “We’re not going.”

“Not go, Illya? We’ll be missed.” It’s the first Christmas without Waverly. One showed up to take up the reins, keep the troops assured all is well – didn’t one?

The slight Russian only grimaced, taking the tie and tossing it to a chair where both of their jackets waited as well. “I find myself unable to care, Napasha. I do not wish to go. Let Raleigh do it, it’s his job now, after all.”

Illya’s tie came apart under his hands, his face turning towards him as it did so. “Well then, old friend. What shall we do instead?” Raising his face to him, Napoleon knew what his lover saw – dark eyes looking back at him with a piercing, hungry gaze while the rest of him remained relaxed and poised to strike. Gentle fingers traced the soft skin behind his ears, the underside of Illya’s jaw and even noted the light stubble of a beard trying to make itself known at the end of a very long day.

Napoleon sensed, more than saw the shift in Illya’s eyes before he lept back into Napoleon’s arms, hungry mouth upon his in an instant to taste his very life as a leg wound itself around his hip and his body pressed his into the mirror behind them. If it broke, he didn’t know it, taking Illya to him to return the kiss in earnest, all pretenses set aside.

Gasping, Illya pulled away long enough to draw Napoleon’s face down to his, resting his forehead on his own, eyes meeting each other, dark with passion and desire. “We shall do whatever catches our fancy, Napasha… _Solnyshka_ mine.” 

Laying a line of kisses now to the tender skin of his neck, Napoleon sighed as his leaned into Illya’s ministrations, again grateful unto death for him. “I only see you,” Napoleon murmured, soft as a prayer. “The mirror of my very heart.”

Illya only looked up at him, the very devil dancing in his eyes. “You talk too much,” he growled fondly. “And wear too many clothes.”

“Ah, but that can be remedied very quickly, you know.”

“Well, then. I suggest we do so at once – you’re keeping me waiting. Again.”

“Tch, Illya. Such impatience doesn’t flatter you.”

Napoleon kissed him, gentle and sweet again, moving to press his lips against Illya’s forehead almost in benediction. “Nothing much flatters me as much as you do, Illyusha. Thank you for that.”

His reward was a gentle punch in the solar plexus. “Oaf,” Illya added fondly. “Let’s go.”

###

The next morning, when he finally awoke to sunlight streaming into the bedroom with his Russian lover watching him with interested consideration, Napoleon took a moment to reorient himself before deciding what the next thing should be.

Breakfast. Definitely some breakfast, perhaps brought back to bed before spending as much more time as he could telling Illya stories, outright lies and endearments. He would always know one from the other, taking it all in with that fond look in his deep blue eyes.

And then drag him away to see him train, then target practice and briefings. Such was their life.

“Napasha?” The tone was puckish, cool and amused. “Just in case I didn’t make myself completely clear last night?

Napoleon felt his brow crease in consternation. What could have been clearer? Illya had climbed him like a tree, plucking ripe fruit as he had gone and he was all the better for it. For himself, he could not have woken more sated or adored, cherished to his toes.

“Napasha, you may be a fool – but you are my fool and I am content with you, and no other. Yes, time has passed and left it marks on both of us…but that is exactly why I wish to remain with you. “

“Are you saying the fact I’m old makes me more attractive, Illya?” It had come out more concerned that he had intended, but exactly as confused as he felt. 

“It’s not like I’m untouched, after all,” he answered with a shrug. “Or perhaps, you think I would be perpetually intrigued by teddy bears and chocolate, like a child, forever? “ Leaning forward, he gently bussed Napoleon’s nose with a soft kiss, just a brush of warm lips and a quick flip from the tip of his tongue. “I want you. All of your smoky passion, tempered by time and experience. Everyone who came before me left a mark and an education…” Illya moved lower to taste the base of his throat with both lips and tongue before a lazy finger traced his sternum in widening circles. “You are perfect for me, at any time, any age. Because it is you – and no other.”

It was a generous gift and Napoleon was not certain how to return the favor in kind. “Illyusha, what did I ever do to deserve you?”

“Scoundrels know each other. Deserve each other. Sit back and enjoy it, you old fool.”

“Old? Now, I thought you said I wasn’t – “

A finger atop his lips silenced him, merry blue eyes meeting his cheered him and a warm and still pliant body pressed against his side convinced him.

He was the right age, at the right time, with the right person.

And he always would be.

###

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, want to make my Christmas jolly?
> 
> Tell me what you think. Comments make the best presents. *^^*


End file.
